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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22915603">A Past Remembered</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CricketJames/pseuds/CricketJames'>CricketJames</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Outlander &amp; Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Multi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 16:02:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,163</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22915603</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CricketJames/pseuds/CricketJames</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"We all carry inside us, people who came before us." - Liam Callanan</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Past Remembered</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: Many people asked me if this was an abandoned story. It was not, life just...happened. But, thanks to friends riding my backside about it, I sat down and got more done. This first part has been revised and lengthened for clarity. </p>
<p>Now, for my note....</p>
<p>It has always bothered me that Diana refuses to write the backstory of her own leading lady, so this is my attempt to remedy that. That being said, be patient. It’s going to take a few (though not many) parts/chapters for things to connect! I promise Claire will appear soon(...ish).</p>
<p>Thank you so much to my cheerleaders, B &amp; L, and my Mistress of History (we’ll work on the title)! I couldn’t have done this without you!</p>
<p>Feedback is always appreciated! If you feel like yelling at me on Twitter, you can find me @singhappy02 or on tumblr at cricketjames.tumblr.com</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h2>
  <span>Part I</span>
</h2>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Eyam, Derbyshire - 30,  June 1666</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He idly traced the veins on the back of her hand as they sat together, staring into the distance as the sunlight waned around them, a bright beam breaking through the tree cover here and there. She wanted to say something to break the silence. Something, anything would be better than the cloud that hung around them. She opened her mouth to speak, then snapped it closed again. What could she possibly say to make this any better?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They watched as Mompesson and Stanley walked cautiously down the path out of town, a cadre of three men following in their wake. They stopped at the break in the road to kneel near the well. She saw Mompesson’s hand disappear into his coat pocket and then drop something - coins most likely - into the well while Stanley and their companions hoisted large bags onto their shoulders before turning to come from whence they came.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Looks like there wasn’t a lot today,” she mused in a hushed whisper.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Lizzie, hush,” he breathed back. She scowled at her hands. They technically weren’t breaking any of the rules. The wooded area atop the hill they sat on was well within the boundary line of the town. Not to mention Stanley was deaf as a post and Mompesson was too wrapped up in his do-gooding to notice the breath of a whisper from a scared girl carried toward him on the wind.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They watched as the motley crew ambled back toward town, slower now as they were burdened by the weight of their parcels. As they reached the crest of the hill and headed down toward the village, she felt Thomas breathe deeply as he dropped his head to his bent knees.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“May I speak now? Or has Stanley suddenly the hearing of owl and will suss us out of our hiding place post haste?” Lizzie asked, attempting to make Thomas crack a smile. She hadn’t seen him smile in so many weeks - months, even.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He shot her a look, then inclined his head for her to continue. She laced her fingers with his where they rested on his knee.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“As I was saying, it doesn’t look like the good people of Derbyshire were able to spare much from their surely overflowing stores today.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“They do what they can. We’re lucky Mompesson had the forethought to arrange the exchange.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh yes, let us praise the great Mompesson. He’s the reason we’re all trapped in this town like rats on a sinking ship.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Thomas cut his eyes at her, “There’s no need, Lizzie.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She huffed out a breath, and pushed the hair that had escaped from her cap out of her face. She knew she was being harsh, but didn’t the situation warrant it? Mompesson had all but signed their death notices when he had closed the town. Now he stood, preaching not inside the church but in the open air in the courtyard - heaven forbid the man be trapped indoors with the potential carriers - about how all townsfolk must persevere and trust in the Lord so that they all be saved. Thomas gave her hand a comforting squeeze before standing and pulling her to her feet.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How many today?” she asked quietly, as they picked their way back through the woods toward town. Her query was met with silence and a stony face.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thomas? How many today? This week? Isn’t anyone keeping count?” She was growing agitated. Lizzie stopped walking, tugging on his hand to force Thomas to turn around and face her. “You aren’t protecting me, Thomas. I asked. I want to know. How many?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Five,” he answered, plainly. “Five this week. Edward Thornley, Ann Skidmore, Jane Townend, Emmott Heald, and John Swann,” he ticked off the names on his fingers as he counted.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She blanched at the list and allowed him to pull her along down the path.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The Thornleys have lost two. The Skidmores three…” he quietly recited as they walked.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She closed her eyes, “Jane. That’s the Townend’s youngest. She was only two…no, three. They celebrated her birthday just past Christmas…” her voice trailed off. “Emmott and Mary Heald’s children are now orphaned and Elizabeth Swann…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Pregnant with their first child,” he finished for her. He dropped her hand to rub at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “There’s at least a dozen more in the village with the pustules. I thought we were coming to the end. We seemed to lose less in the winter and now…if I’ve kept count we’ve lost more in one month than we did the entirety of the five before.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She knew his count was right. How could it not be? Thomas being one of the few able bodied and illness-free men left in the village had been all but pressed into service to assist in the burial of the dead. It was a gruesome task, and she worried for him daily. He wouldn’t let her come near him after a burial. He had been given a reprieve for the last two days, a small blessing from Mompesson.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He stopped walking at the crest of the hill, staring down into the village. His eyes were fixed on the church, but his gaze was far away. She could almost see the wheels turning in his mind.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Love, what are you thinking?” she asked, laying a hand on his arm. He shook his head, his eyes not leaving the church.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You can tell me, you know. You can tell me anything. I promise I won’t faint or run screaming,” again, trying to make him smile.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He pursed his lips and nodded twice before turning to her and taking her hands in his.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You have to go.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She blinked owlishly at him, her brown eyes darkening in confusion.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Go? Go where? Mompesson closed the town. We can’t go anywhere. Are you feeling…” she reached out to touch his forehead instinctively.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He dodged her hand with a feint to the right before snatching her hand out of midair and grasping it between both of his own.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Lizzie. You have to. You’ve got to go. Get out of here. We’ll take a few days and figure it out. There has to be a way. You can’t stay here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you talking about? I’m not going anywhere,” she tried to pull her hand back and only succeeded in making him pull her closer.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You are.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No. I’m not,” she said, clipping her words and snatching her hand away from his. “Are you crazy? I’m not going ANYWHERE, Thomas. I’m staying right here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You will go. You’ll do as I say and go. Save yourself and…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And what, Thomas? Did you just conveniently remember that I’m currently carrying your child? Where the hell,” she started.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Elizabeth.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Where the HELL,” she continued, “am I supposed to go? Am I to go to Grindleford? Or perhaps to Abney? Or, no, wait, maybe you expect me to somehow get myself all the way to Sheffield ON MY OWN with no aid. Thomas, everyone anywhere closer to Sheffield knows me. They know I am your WIFE. How am I to explain how, or forget how - WHY I left the village? I’ll be a pariah or just outright killed in the street. Who will miss one more poor victim from Eyam? My name will just go down in the ledgers as one more victim of the sickness, struck down at the ripe age of twenty three!” She threw her hands in the air and then stalked a few paces away, hands on her hips and breathing hard. “I will not leave you here. I cannot. What you’re asking me to do is leave my entire heart here, in Eyam, and go…somewhere. Wherever I went, I wouldn’t have you - or even KNOWLEDGE of your wellbeing! Don’t you see that would be impossible for me? You wouldn’t be able to do it either!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Thomas ran his hands through his sandy hair, making the shorter bits at the crown of his head stand up in disarray.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know what else to do! All I do know is that I cannot lose you!” His voice was just this side of yelling - a volume Lizzie had yet to hear in their time together. She closed her eyes and didn’t turn to face him. Her sweet, mild mannered, green eyed boy who was loathe to raise his voice to anything, let alone her, had transformed in the span of what felt like the longest days of her life.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know what else to do,” he said again, softer. She heard the thump of his weight hit the ground as he sat heavily. She turned and her heart broke all over again. He looked so broken, head between his knees and hands clasped at the nape of his neck. She went to him, her skirts billowing around her as she sank to her knees beside him, pressing a kiss to his clasped hands before resting her forehead against his shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We don’t have to figure it out now,” she whispered. “Not yet.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No. We’re going to go home, eat dinner, I’ll help your mother finish the mending and then we’ll go to bed. Together. We’ll wake up tomorrow, together. We’ll go about our days, together. Until it’s bad enough that we cannot see a way out - together.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He unlaced his fingers and turned to face her, a small smile peeking through the dark clouds that composed his face.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re a stubborn fool, you know that?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She smiled and nudged his shoulder with hers, “Yes. But I’m your fool, and you’re mine. In sickness and in health. If this doesn’t qualify as sickness, I don’t know what does.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He shook his head, standing and helping her to her feet.</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p><hr/>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Eyam, Derbyshire - 8, August 1666</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Even the air around her seemed heavy. With the windows boarded and the door only opened to admit food and water - neither on any sort of schedule - the heat of the fire in the hearth only added to the intense feeling of suffocation. It seemed every inch of the house was taken by someone - or something. For a time it seemed as though something was working. What, she wasn’t sure entirely, but something seemed to be making headway against the relentless onslaught of death, even if that headway was only a drop in the proverbial bucket. She had gone outside, even in the blistering cold just months ago, to feel alive, even if only momentarily. Now, with the change of the season, that luxury was gone until the cold breath of winter crept upon the village again or until the Almighty intervened.Truth be told, she wasn’t entirely sure she would live to see this winter, nor was she positive she wanted to. It seemed the Lord had forgotten about this tiny place. This dot on the map that she was positive would go down in history as the place where one man with a savior complex condemned an entire village in one fell swoop.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>How had they all agreed? They had watched him, proselytizing behind the pulpit that Sunday only weeks ago. Sandwiched between the doxology and benediction, he had told them, with Thomas Stanley sitting sedate in the first pew, of his plan to save them all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She closed her eyes and could hear his words, forever etched on her subconscious, rattle around inside her exhausted brain.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We must do our part to save our neighbor. As put forth in the book of Mark, twelfth chapter and thirty first verse: ’The second is this: Love thy neighbor as thyself. There is no commandment greater than these.’ It is our duty as brothers and sisters in Christ to protect those around us from this scourge, save them from the horrors that we ourselves have borne witness to. It is through faith, and faith alone, that Eyam shall survive. Beginning on this day, the twenty fourth of June in the year of our Lord 1666, Eyam will no longer be open. None shall pass the boundary stone to enter or exit the town. Let this scourge end here, with us.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In Lizzie’s opinion, the man was a stupid git - a damn fool if she wanted to be precise about it. These were thoughts she had trained herself to keep inside. No woman in Eyam would ever speak out against the rector outside of the whispering of bedfellows. Even then, Lizzie mused, it would shock her mightily if Elizabeth, her soft spoken and kind hearted mother-in-law, would have ever breathed a negative word about Mompesson OR Stanley to John.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lizzie’s hands ached along with her back, the opened blisters weeping against her skirts as she sat staring at the wood of the table, mind blank except for panic and disbelief that this was all really happening. They had buried John and little Beth just four days ago - four! - and in the morning they would lay to rest two more. She did not wish ill on anyone in the household, but truth be told she felt that it was unlikely Young John would live to see the morning. His breathing had been unsteady all day, leaving those that remained in the home watching, waiting, and worrying. They had lost four already, one more would surely devastate Elizabeth.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes cast to the corner where Elizabeth sat, dutifully mending a shirt of John the Elder’s that had been rent at the shoulder weeks earlier. She puzzled at the futility of the exercise, given the owner had been buried four days ago by the hands of herself, Elizabeth, and tiny, fragile Anne who was barely big enough to hold a spade upright - let alone help carry her father’s body.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dearest John. It was hard to reconcile the big, burly man who had been such a presence in the home for the entirety of the time Lizzie had been in Eyam was…gone. From the first sign of the sickness - the dark, inflamed area the size of a grape just beneath his right ear - to burial in less than two days. The house felt empty without him, despite the unrelenting sensation of being crammed in on all sides.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After the edict came that families were to bury their own dead, Thomas and Oner had taken to helping other families with the heart wrenching task. The cemetery was full and families were turning to open pasture - ownership be damned - to lay their beloved to rest.  Elizabeth had chosen a small patch of earth for their family, not far from the home they shared. Everything was happening too quickly for any of the traditional burial rites to occur. There were few headstones, most final resting places marked with a rough hewn wooden cross or a sizable stone with initials and two dates - dates that were often far too close together - so that any surviving relatives, if there were any, could one day replace the makeshift markers with something more permanent. Watching tiny Alice, at the tender age of seven, carefully etch her own father’s name and dates of life into a stone too heavy for her to carry had almost ended Lizzie on the spot.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That night, Thomas had again begged her to leave, to sneak out of the city while she was still able under the cover of darkness. He had pleaded with her - literally on his hands and knees to go, leave and save herself and the child.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But she couldn’t. How could she leave when all she cared about in the world was here in this tiny village? She knew things. It was true her knowledge was vague - but it was still knowledge! Surely, even the most limited grasp of what was happening to the village would be of use and could help in some way. She had held onto the hope that something she was doing would help. She made all uninfected members of the family wash as thoroughly as they could daily. She kept the small home swept and the floor clear of debris, trying desperately to not allow any sort of pest inside the home lest anyone else fall ill. She and Elizabeth burned the clothing and bedding of the deceased, despite the knowledge that those possessions could be of use to the family and would not be easily, if ever, replaced. The family had survived, and dare she say even moderately thrived, the entire ten months prior. How could they have gone so long without losing anyone when entire families were disappearing all around her? It seemed they were in a small oasis, untouched by the plague that raged around them. She did all she knew to do, all she could do given the resources around her. She’d never seen plague before - it had been gone for so long that she hadn’t even spared a thought to consider it. If she had, could she have saved them all? Would it have mattered? Why hadn’t she been affected?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She didn’t have time, or the energy if she was being completely honest with herself, to entertain the thought for long. The day had been long. Unending. Horrible. What little amount of space she had in her head for conscious thought was really focused on one thing and one thing only.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Thomas.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Her sweet, sandy haired Thomas.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Gone.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stolen away from her in the darkest hours of the night when her eyes had slipped shut only briefly. She would never forgive herself, ever, for allowing her guard to slip and the sleep deprivation she had been fighting for over a week take over. Unlike his father, he hadn’t been taken quickly. The death toll had not abated in the days after the town had been insulated. If anything, the numbers had grown exponentially with the town burying as many as eight people in a single day. There was not a single day that went by that a life wasn’t lost, a loved one wasn’t laid forever to rest. Lizzie felt like a fool for thinking that somehow she and Thomas would escape, that they would somehow, someway, make it through this darkness and live a life of peace and happiness on the other side. Now all she could see was darkness, ever present and pressing down on her from all sides.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Eyam, Derbyshire - 13, August 1666</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>    There was nothing left. The house, which had once felt large and full of life in comparison to Lizzie’s former home, was completely empty. Devoid of any of the charm and character that once had delighted her, thrilled her, and welcomed her into its warm familial embrace.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Elizabeth sat across the table, staring at a slice of bread. The table between them stretched far too big for two people, having once comfortably sat twelve. Nothing moved outside - animal or human. The animals of Riley farm long since sacrificed to feed a starving family. The only two souls left alive on this patch of earth were Lizzie and Elizabeth. Two Elizabeths. Lizzie had long known that her name, according to both her mother and the parish priest, bore the meaning of consecrated to God. How could she ever have known how literal that meaning would come to be?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Elizabeth pushed the plate and untouched bread away from her and looked up at Lizzie.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You have to go,” she said quietly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lizzie blinked at her, surely she must have misheard her.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Pardon?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You have to go,” Elizabeth repeated.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I…I’m not…” Lizzie stammered, unsure of the intent of her mother-in-law’s words.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I spoke to Thomas,” Elizabeth continued. Lizzie’s eyes bugged and Elizabeth allowed the beginnings of a smirk to show in the lines of her weary face. “Before. I spoke to Thomas before he...He told me that if there came a time that it seemed all was lost that I must force you to go.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lizzie was silent, her jaw dropped leaving her mouth slightly open as she tried to process Elizabeth’s words. She shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs, “Thomas and I spoke of it too, just after the town was closed. I told him I wasn’t going, and I’ll say the same to you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“There is nothing keeping you here,” Elizabeth said softly, standing and crossing around the table to sit next to Lizzie.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You! You are here!” Lizzie said, a tinge of panic creeping into her voice.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Elizabeth sighed, her eyes slipping closed, as she reached out to caress the younger woman’s cheek.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Lizzie, I’m an old woman who has lost almost everything I cared about in this world. I buried my husband and six children and yet bear no symptom of this pestilence myself. The only thing left in this world that I care about is you and the child you carry.” Lizzie blinked rapidly, a hand dropping to her stomach. “Thomas told me, though I had my own suspicions.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That rat,” Lizzie breathed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He never was able to keep much of a secret,” Elizabeth mused. “He was always the first to inform me of his brothers’ wrongdoings and would almost always betray his own secrets in the process.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That sounds like my Thomas.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Elizabeth smiled, a true smile, and rested her hand on top of Lizzie’s. “If I can do one thing right in this time of hell on Earth, let it be saving you and the child. Just knowing that you’re gone from this place and safe would let me rest my weary bones. Let me go to my grave knowing that there is someone out there who carries on the memory of our family and doesn’t let our existence fall to dust and escape on the wind.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I just…” Lizzie started, her breath catching in her throat as a sob threatened to escape.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It is what Thomas wanted, it is what I want, and I know if John were with us he would be telling you to go as well. If you look inside, I think it is what you want, too.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lizzie gave a quick jerk of her head in assent, almost not by her own volition, as tears ran freely down her face and neck, pooling on her collarbones.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll come up with a plan, you and I. No one will think much of two ladies alone in this big house. We have time - though not a lot, a day at most - to put things in order. I’ll help you as much as I can.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But what will you do?” Lizzie asked, forcefully wiping at the tears that refused to stop flowing, stemming the running of her nose with the back of her hand.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Manage. It’s what mothers do. You’ll learn that one day soon. Now, let us clear this table and sleep. Our beloved will visit us in dreams and we’ll set about determining the next step forward in the morning.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lizzie nodded, sniffing one last time and wiping her eyes on the hem of her skirt. The ladies cleared the two plates and two cups in silence, stowing the untouched bread back in the cupboard. As they bid their goodnights and turned to retire to their own sleeping areas, Lizzie turned back.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Elizabeth?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, dear?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Bakewell, Derbyshire - 17, August 1666</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>She had been walking for what felt like weeks. In reality, it had only been a few days, but she felt as if she had aged fifteen years in the last few weeks - walking as much as she had only hastened the process. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>The kindly innkeeper who had given her respite from the weather and a bite in exchange for helping with the day’s wash had given her the tiniest bit of hope that her trek would be over soon. Of course, the gentleman hadn’t accounted for rain. Ceaseless, merciless, pounding rain. Whatever semblance of a road had lead from Hathersage to Bakewell had been all but obliterated into muck. Lizzie had lost both of her shoes, twice, to the sucking mud that reached nearly mid-calf at present. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What I wouldn’t give for a set of laces,” she grumbled, casting an evil eye toward the heavens as she fished her right shoe out of the mud for the third time. She had never been anything but grateful for the entirety of her time in Eyam, but after the onslaught of piss poor circumstance in the past month she was more than willing to rail at God just a bit. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>Shoe restored, she pushed onward, stepping as lightly as she could from exposed rock to the least sodden patch of ground she could find. The town of Bakewell was, allegedly, only another two miles ahead of her. If she pressed on, and the blasted rain let up just for a moment, she would make it by nightfall. Otherwise, it was going to be a very wet and cold evening. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>As she walked she felt not only the constant pressure of the child against her bladder, but the damp crinkle of paper pressed against her stomach. The innkeeper had pressed a short note, penned hastily before her departure, into her hand imploring the groundskeeper of Haddon Hall to find her a bit of space to sleep for the night before continuing on her way. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>“He is my cousin, he’ll oblige,” the old man had said, patting her hand as she gathered her belongings. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>She wasn’t sure how much weight the old man’s promise held, but she kept the thought of somewhere dry in the forefront of her mind driving her toward her destination. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>Truth be told, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to stop at Haddon Hall. Fabricating a story to appease an innkeeper was one thing, but attempting to fool someone who was employed by the Earl of Rutland was something different entirely. Afterall, Stanton Moor was only another two hours walk (or perhaps more at her current pace), and frankly she would rather just get there and be done with it all. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>Elizabeth had been puzzled when Lizzie inquired about the direction she should travel in order to find Stanton Moor. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>“No one lives on the moor, save for grouse and the occasional deer. Why on Earth would you travel there?” she had asked, puzzlement filling her amber eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>Lizzie had been forced to deflect on the spot, weaving a tale of an estranged elderly aunt who lived just beyond the moor. She could tell Elizabeth hadn’t believed her, but had roughly sketched out a map in the dirt. Lizzie had been surprised the older woman had known of the moor at all, given that people did not seem to travel very extensively. When she had posed the question to Elizabeth, the answer had been a vague story about John having business in Bakewell. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>It had taken all of Lizzie’s willpower not to salivate at the name Bakewell. Did Bakewell pudding exist presently? She wasn’t sure, but that didn’t stop her from practically being able to taste the jam and pastry. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>What Lizzie hadn’t told Elizabeth was the true reason for her desire to get to Stanton Moor. Her Thomas was the only one who knew the truth. He had been skeptical, as she expected, but he had listened and not cast her away as a witch like she had presumed he would. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>Stanton Moor was where she had arrived, well over a year ago. She had quite literally tumbled, dazed, confused, and nauseated onto the ground at the base of a rounded stone. It still boggled her mind that the whole thing had actually worked. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When she had first found the Nine Ladies Circle, on an innocent walk with a friend across the moor, she had thought nothing of the stones. She had seen them as a pretty backdrop to the surrounding heather, an interesting formation but nothing more than that. It wasn’t until she had returned home and her elderly aunt Althea had spun a fantastical tale of the nine dancing ladies that her interest had been piqued. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Per local lore, each of the nine stones was a maiden who had been turned to stone for the crime of dancing on the Sabbath with a tenth stone representing the fiddler playing them to their Medusa-esque end. Townsfolk said the fiddler came back to life once a year near Beltane to entice other young maidens to join him in a riotous afterlife. Lizzie had, of course, believed none of this but found it an interesting tale to say the least - especially after the shopkeep in the village had overheard her conversations with Tibby Prather and wound a tale of women who had disappeared at the stones in the intervening years, frequently around the fire feast days. Tibby, bless her, had taken the whole story hook, line, and sinker. Her eyes had been round as teacup saucers as the old man had warned them away from the area on the cross quarter days and she had breathlessly sworn they would never venture near the area again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lizzie had, obviously, made no such promises. Weeks later her life was falling to pieces around her. Her mother had died of scarlet fever and her father had returned from the local pub, drunk and reeling, informing her of her imminent betrothal to Robert Greaves - a man of 48 to her freshly celebrated 18. She had fled the house, sobbing, into the dusky evening air, just wanting to get away. She didn’t care where she went, she just needed to go. Her feet carried her across the moor, up the rocky hills and to the flat that held the stones. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After that, things were hazy. She remembered chaos, plain, unadulterated chaos, and darkness. The first clear thing she remembered was the prodding nose of a curious sheep against her neck and the concerned voice of the shepherd he belonged to. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>She wasn’t exactly rushing to experience the sensation again, but she knew she had to for the sake of herself and the child. She had no one here. The last family she had had been left behind in a too quiet farmhouse three days walk from here, left to manage and cope on her own. Lizzie questioned if she should have heeded Elizabeth’s advice and left, or stayed behind and helped her along - praying for the best as they stumbled and likely starved through the lean days ahead. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>No. She was right to leave. She just had to make it back to the stones and pray that whatever had happened the first time she had passed through them would work again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Eyam, Derbyshire - 22 April, 1894</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>The little hand fit into hers perfectly, warm and solid against the intangible but omnipresent grief pressing down on her from all sides. The little one tugged against her hand in a plea to go chase the “futterblies” in the tall grass. With a squeeze to the small hand and a soft smile, permission was granted and the whirling dervish of baby soft curls and skirts too big for a small body tore off into the tall grass shrieking and laughing all the while. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>Lizzie sat down on an fallen tree, basket of food resting at her side as she watched the tiny brown head disappear amongst the tall grass before suddenly reappearing with a leap, a clap of her hands and a gleeful giggle. She was so glad the child was happy, jubilant even, but Lizzie wished she could feel the same. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>Why had she chosen to come back here? It seemed like a good idea in the moment. A quick trip out to the country to get some fresh air and space to breathe without the crush of bodies and buildings that London presented. But now, sitting here in the small meadow with the church within shouting distance and the rows of houses it was overwhelming. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>People had begun returning to Eyam slowly after the disease had lifted it’s foot from the throat of the town. Lizzie knew from what limited resources existed on the topic, that the plague had taken nearly half the residents of the town. It had obliterated entire families, wiped bloodlines off the map, and damaged the town in ways that were still being felt today. She could almost feel the dregs of desperation in the air. Wisps of grief that still lingered, brushing against her cheeks in the soft breeze, leeching from the ground into the soles and then the souls of the people who walked the formerly infected streets. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>She hadn’t known when they had left two days prior that they would be entering the town during a celebration. When they had stepped out of the coach in front of the church and she had seen the placards for “Plague Sunday” her stomach and roiled and she had to swallow back immediate vomit that rose in her throat. She wanted to step back into the coach, taking the child with her and never look on this God forsaken town again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>How could they celebrate? Two hundred and seventy three people were dead, DEAD, and the citizens of the town were preparing for a feast and a well dressing ceremony?! It seemed absurd, sacrilegious even. As she sat, Lizzie fumed over the audacity of the townspeople. She knew, logically, that the events were just a history lesson to the people of the town. Something that had happened long ago to people they didn’t know in a time that seemed as distant as the time of primeval history with Adam and Eve. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But for Lizzie it was different. So, so very different. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mummy!”  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>The pitch of the small voice and the force of the tiny body rocketing into her legs snapped Lizzie out of her maudlin reverie and she smiled. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Hi baby,” she said, reaching out a hand to brush through the dusty brown curls. “Did you find a treasure?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>The child’s face lit up from within, nodding so forcefully that her curls bobbed against her still baby fat cheeks. She held up her clasped hands and thrust them into her mother’s face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>Lizzie carefully pried the clenched fingers apart and unfolded the small hands gently. Inside the cupped palms sat a small white butterfly, wings beating gently against the child’s life line. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>“It pretty, mummy,” the child whispered, putting her face right next to her hands to see her prize more clearly. Her large golden eyes blinking as she tried to focus on the tiny butterfly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Yes lovey, it is very pretty. But I think we should let it go so it can join its friends,” Lizzie replied, pointing to the cluster of butterflies flitting from small purple flower to small purple flower a few yards away. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>The tiny face went mutinous momentarily, her stubborn streak showing through in a moment of weakness before softening and nodding. She moved her hands so they pointed in the direction of the gathering of butterflies before yelling, “GO FRIEND! GO FRIENDS!” and blowing on her palms. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>Lizzie laughed as the child waved to her newly freed friend enthusiastically before turning to face her mother with her hands on her tiny hips. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>“I hungry, mummy.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Well I bet you are,” Lizzie replied, standing and scooping up the small girl along with the basket of food. “Let’s find somewhere to have our picnic, shall we?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>The girl wriggled in her mother’s grasp, trying desperately to get down. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Julia WALK. Julia big girl.” she said, wriggling so she slid from her mother's grasp before stumbling slightly as her feet hit the ground. “You hold hand,” she commanded, thrusting her hand upward to snag her mother’s. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Oh yes I forgot, you ARE a big girl, aren’t you Lovey?” Lizzie replied with a laugh, taking and squeezing the small hand before setting off into town. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>The town was small. It had always been small, Lizzie acknowledged, but in comparison to the sprawling towns and cities of the present it seemed positively microscopic. In a world where you were pressed to know all of your neighbors, she was willing to bet that the current rector could name all of his parishioners from memory and likely rattle off the remaining heretics in town. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Oooooooooh,” Julia’s tiny, awed, voice sprang from her side. “Mummy LOOK!” Lizzie followed the point of the chubby finger and her eyes landed on the gloriously festooned well. The small font of water, bubbling merrily from the ground, was laden with flowers and ribbons. Small coin offerings lay in shallow bowls at its sides, and unlit candles were nestled amongst the flowers around it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>Lizzie’s stomach roiled at the sight of the well. The well had been the demarcation of the boundary line. Step foot across it and you all but damned outsiders to the same fate of those trapped within it it’s boundary - or so Mompesson had the villagers believing. She smiled at the recollection of the horrified look that had crossed Thomas’s face as she had voiced her contemplation of taking a running leap across the line and then running like the devil himself was behind her. She never would have done it, of course, she couldn’t have left Thomas. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>But he had been the one to leave her. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>The tug of Julia’s hand in her own snapped her from her maudlin reverie. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Mummy! Want to SPLASH,” Julia said, marching her mother toward the well. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>“No, no, no, lovey. That’s not for splashing!” Lizzie corrected, scooping the small but determined little girl up into her arms. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Issa PUDDLE,” Julia said, tiny hands balling into fists at her waist and meeting her mother’s eyes dead on with a look of sheer determination that would have made Lizzie laugh in any other circumstances. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Lovey, that’s a well. Not a puddle. People drink from it! Or, well, they did drink from it. I’m not sure they drink from it anymore.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>Julia was unimpressed. She took both of her hands and put one on each of Lizzie’s cheeks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Mummy. Want to eat and want to splash, m’okay?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>Lizzie did laugh at that. “You drive a hard bargain, miss Julia Elizabeth Moriston. How about we eat first and then we’ll see about splashing.” She put her forehead to Julia’s tiny one and punctuated her sentence with a kiss to her tiny nose. “Do you want down?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>She could see the wheels turning as Julia contemplated the question. She shook her head and tucked herself against her mother’s neck, her thumb finding her mouth in leftover habit from her baby days. Lizzie smiled against her hair and adjusted her in her arms so she could carry both the small girl and the picnic basket with ease. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>Lizzie knew exactly where she wanted them to stop to eat, but was unsure if she had the heart to make it there. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>____________________________________________________________________________</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>The stone wall surrounding the small patch of earth wasn’t tall, nor was it particularly beautiful to look at. But, the wall was sturdy, and kept the creeping weeds of the hillside - and probably more than one wayward goat, cow, or sheep, from trampling the stones inside. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>Lizzie’s heart had seized the moment they had turned the corner to walk up the lane that had once led to the Riley farm. The stone wall was visible from quite a distance, sticking out of the otherwise grassy expanse of the hillside as it did. Her feet had felt like cannonballs strapped to the ends of her legs, each step harder and more painful than the one before it. Julia had skipped ahead, chasing an errant field mouse who had happened to cross her path. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Mummy?” she called from a few yards ahead, “Whassat?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>She was pointing at the small, walled in gravesite, standing alone amongst the grass. Lizzie cleared her throat and closed the gap between herself and her daughter. She had no idea how to explain the concept of death to a three year old, let alone what a gravesite was without terrifying the child beyond comprehension. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>Lizzie sat the basket down on the path and took Julia’s hand, leading her slowly and carefully toward the site. The markers had changed, of course they had - it had been more than 200 years since the original rough hewn stones and makeshift crosses had been assembled in this very place - but the look of the area was mostly the same. She had expected to feel an overwhelming rush of sadness, of debilitating grief that would destroy her. She had known this feeling was coming and prepared herself for it. She needed to see this place, to be near them, in some way, once more. But she didn’t feel sadness or grief, instead she felt...warmth. As she took in the markers, Julia’s hand held firmly in hers, memories of the ones interred beneath them brought a lightness to her heart. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>John the Elder, with his big laugh and kind smile welcoming her into their home when she had nowhere else to go. Sweet tiny Alice, fair in both complexion and spirit, sitting by the fire singing sweet nonsense songs to her doll. Oner and young John making her laugh until her sides ached with their impressions of the old women in town carping about the day’s sermon. She stopped when she came to the last two markers. She knew exactly to whom they belonged and she didn’t know if she could make herself look at them and face the fact that not only were these two beloved people gone from her life, but had been gone for more than 200 years in time’s measure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>Lizzie took a deep breath, scooped Julia off the ground, and peered down at the first stone. Elizabeth. Warm, motherly, patient Elizabeth. She had given her the gift of life by helping her escape the town in the cover of night, giving her the last of their food and as much coin as she could spare to help her get away. Looking at the faint dates etched into the stone, she realized Elizabeth had lived another ten years after the rest of her family had been taken by the disease. Lizzie hoped it hadn’t been too painful or empty of an existence, she never would forgive herself if it had been. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She said a quick, silent prayer, and took three steps to the next stone. She sat down, hard, in the grass with Julia in her lap looking quizzically up at her. She couldn’t help the tears that streaked down her face, pooling in the open neck of her dress. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mummy, you sad?” Julia asked, worry creasing her tiny brow. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lizzie cleared her throat and thumbed tears from under her eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A little bit, lovey. But, it’s okay. Mummy’s just remembering.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Julia nodded, clearly having no idea what Lizzie was on about and she had to smile. She hugged the little girl close to her as she traced Thomas’s name on the stone. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you want to hear a story about daddy?”</span>
</p>
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